


This Thing of Ours

by linearoundmythoughts



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Everyone Is Gay, Family Issues, Frenemies, Gen, I call her 'Sophia' in fic, I thought her name was spelled 'Sophia' even before those 4x11 pics were released, Marriage of Convenience, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, but i would call Donna Falcone whatever she chooses, but the system here seems to want 'Sofia' so hence the tags, ok how about some real tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12811575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linearoundmythoughts/pseuds/linearoundmythoughts
Summary: After sentimentality strikes Sophia's plans down, she does the one thing Oswald kept asking of her—she tells the truth, and he decides, in light of her being his only friend left, to not seek vengeance. Unfortunately, selling the outside world on a Falcone-Cobblepot partnership is going to take more of an action for both mobsters than they ever planned on. It's hard to have a happy union when you aren't, and never will be, in love.A canon-divergent (after 4x09, before 4x10) "frenemies" caught in a platonic, political marriage, and how true family is defined (and redefined) for both of them, when forced to live a lie.





	This Thing of Ours

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a crack fic centered around a scene/exchange that's not even _present_ in this fic now. Sometimes a muse grabs you fast, and you just get dragged along the all-consuming ride for the next six days of your life, ignoring everything in favor of taking the inspiration where it guides you….
> 
> It's been an amazing ride; I love you, Sophia Falcone. Every fascinating part of you. [With a maddening force.](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bbj8ds5Atgs/?hl=en&taken-by=crystalmreed) (Come on…that pic is _so_ IC…).
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, to [Lyrae_Immortalis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae_Immortalis/pseuds/Lyrae_Immortalis) for beta-ing, for encouraging me, for understanding my obsession with writing this and forgiving me being very heavily distracted for about a week while I was too consumed with this for much else. Thank you, my dear ❤︎ (And also, thank you for writing a line of Oswald's dialogue regarding running from, or running toward—so beautiful!)

* * *

"This Thing of Ours" meaning:

1\. Translated from the Italian phrase "La Cosa Nostra," also meaning "Mafia."  
This thing of ours refers to the Italians who created the modern Mafia;   
it was "their thing," "their own thing" that they created.

2\. A mob family, or the entire mob.

(credit: [Urban Dictionary](https://www.urbandictionary.com/tags.php?tag=this%20thing%20of%20ours), [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_Mafia-related_words))

* * *

 

⚯

 

Oswald didn’t kiss her after the priest announced them husband and wife. He stood like a stone statue, eyes vacant, face blanched. It was incredibly awkward, and for the hundredth time that morning, Sophia wished they didn’t have to do this publicly. While wanting it private ran counter to _every aspect_ of their intents, showing the unity between the new order and the old—carrying that unity so far as the alter—she did care about the man who had managed to carve a space in her heart as a friend, and she knew Oswald well enough, even after these few, short weeks spent together, that while he exudes confidence in almost every waking moment of his life, in this, he was painfully uncomfortable, and if he were, in _any_ way capable of public displays of affection…

…this was not the time and place.

All this she thinks in a flash, and acts quickly, as she’s always prided herself on doing. With a tilt of her head down to his level, flouncy enough to be passed off as perhaps bashful for the cameras that start flashing their bulbs the moment she moves in, she pecks him on the side of his mouth, intentionally missing his lips, letting her height and the way she fakes leaning in deeper hide their faces from sight.

It’s over in a breath’s moment, and she leads them down the aisle, _Mrs._ and Mr. Falcone, for all the world to see and photograph and _understand_ , and into the limo waiting for them outside the church. Of course it’s a Catholic one—the church they’d been married in—they couldn’t exactly recognize Oswald’s Orthodox background, not in light of the intent of their union centering around the _Falcone name_ , and with how _modern_ they’d been about everything else, the illusion that he would change religious denominations to fit his wife was implied, even if untrue.

That was their entire relationship, as packaged for the public’s consumption—implied, and completely untrue.

Well. Not completely.

Sophia lays a hand on Oswald’s, where he has wrapped it around his own knee, the lace of her gloves starkly contrasting against the leather of his.

It shouldn’t have been shocking that he flinches away, and it shouldn’t have humiliated Sophia on some level, but it does, reminding her too much of how like her father she’s become, even if that comparison is unfair in _her_ given circumstances. Oswald isn’t an innocent like most of the women who had been Carmine’s, as wives or mothers or lovers or something else. He is the King of Gotham—far from a blushing ingénue—but still, Sophia sighs heavily and crosses her arms.

“I don’t want us to be miserable at each other this soon in,” she says, lifting her dress skirt up with two sets of pinched fingers holding the fabric away an inch or so, so she can cross her legs. “It’s cruel, in light of our friendship, to be sullen or bitter,” she adds, when Oswald doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t look at her anyway, too busy drinking straight from the bottle of champagne set out for them in the backseat, and Sophia gives up, rocks her foot as they drive away, bored and itching to get out of her wedding clothes once they’ve returned to Oswald’s mansion.

⚭

They’d been friends at one point. Friends who laughed, who shared stories of their exploits, shared their strange, illegal culture, and their common interests as they were unearthed.

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a _friend_ who is a mobster before,” Oswald remarks once, over informal lunch in Sophia’s office at the orphanage. “Associates, certainly,” he details, stirring his macaroni and cheese, “Enemies, most definitely. Friends…”

“It’s a rare opportunity, to have such a bond,” Sophia smiles as she summarizes his thoughts for him.

He smiles back and shoves a massive spoonful of the macaroni in his mouth. He eats like a child, and for some reason it endears him to Sophia, instead of repulses her. There’s something cartoonish about how he behaves (no wonder his ex invented a comedy routine around his theatricality), and it amuses Sophia.

In a world where little does, since the depression she was thrown into last year, it’s appreciated.

And it is the little things like that that make her game of playing off of Oswald’s loneliness too cruel for even her to bear, for it is not only cruel to him, but to her, as well.

 _Oh well_ , she figures, rationalizing it away fast. _I have always been drawn to the unusual in life. Making friends shouldn’t be an exception._

⚭

It wasn’t entirely surprising they weren’t friends as they once had been. Not after Sophia’s plots were discovered, not after she _revealed_ them, not after the challenges both of them faced trying to de-rig her machinations.

“You would go to the mattresses for those you love, Oswald,” Sophia tells him, compliments him, after he chooses to spare her life, and accept her friendship once again, even after betrayal. “It’s a rare trait, among those like us.” There may be tears forming in her eyes, but she tries not to dwell on it.

“It’s a rare trait among _any_ part of the population,” he snaps, marching around the room, stomping from one window to the next, the fire in the fireplace fading out, the night turning to dawn. They’ve talked for hours. Screamed. There have been multiple threats, and even more confessions.

“I should just _kill you_ instead,” Oswald seethes; he’s been saying things like that the entire night, in different word orders, and she ignores it, but still, it’s a chilling thing to hear.

Sophia thinks of the stories she’s heard, of the man Oswald literally resorted to having _iced_ instead of killed in retribution. The protégé he ignored until she abandoned him, who he still daily seeks her whereabouts. The mentor he murdered, only to admit to defining himself based on his connection to her. The child he’s manipulated, out of his own childlike fear.

She compares herself, her defining relationships. A father she abhors, and is slowly becoming, for better and for worse. The long line of exes, each echoing the last one’s complaints, each adding their own new to the list. The mother who died without warning, the brother who did the same, who was her only true friend.

What an odd mix of compassion and arrogance Mario had. Oswald reminds her of him, in ways that are comical, and ways that are tragic, and in ways that make her smile over salad and soup as a shared lunch. The more she digs, and the more she excavates from the ruins of Oswald’s life, the more she finds something in _everything_ that she could store on her shelf here in Gotham, in her new life, and say to guests who study her life from the outside, _See, I had one of these, back in Miami, back when I was free and ambitious, I had one just like this, waiting for me to return to it someday, but for now, Gotham is my home again, and thus, I am rebuilding._

Much of Sophia’s life is some kind of psycho-trauma comedy, the same scenarios repeating themselves endlessly, fractals upon fractals, folding in on themselves, multiplying outwards, like a flock of birds overhead that seems too large for each to fly, to have air to breathe, yet they float on. Most of her life’s dramas are of her own design, carefully crafted to simulate the last thing she couldn’t get enough of, the last plot that went wrong, the last person whose love she lost.

It’s best to not think about the implications of her decision to come clean to Oswald, to seek his mercy instead of seek his demise. She can take a page out of his book, so to speak, and not think about _any_ of the plausible results of her actions until the repercussions come raining down like hail upon her life later. When in Rome, correct?

Rubbing her still-bandaged hand, she watches Oswald with keen eyes, sees the tears pool above his lower lash line, the shake of anger in his limbs, the paleness of wrought emotion exhausting him. She almost went to war with this man, and for what purpose? To behold him is enough to see it would have been unnecessary. Is there anything in Oswald Cobblepot’s life he hasn’t ruin by touching it, by simply being _near_ it? Talk about repeating patterns. There’s nothing in his life, she came to realize, that he wouldn’t lose in another three to six weeks (if not sooner), just by _existing_ , just by being himself. What a cursed existence. Letting him _live_ on his own terms would do more harm than anything anyone else could do.

Maybe that’s why that small part of her who truly _wanted_ to help him improve his life took over, reigned over all her other desires and plans. Authenticity tends to do just that to the heart.

On the eve of the war, she can’t let it continue. Call it weakness—call it honor. Sophia feels the same, regardless. The Falcones are mobsters, _not_ monsters. She’s not Oswald. She can see what will come, if she continues, and maybe that’s exactly why they’re in each others’ lives.

“Maybe a union of both sides would solve this,” she says quietly, and Oswald turns, and the proposal, and its results, are now history, just another anthology in the annals of Gotham’s strange and complex history.

⚭

About two weeks into their marriage (no honeymoon, because Sophia is, of course, too busy with running the orphanage, and, _of course_ , her husband was more than happy to support her philanthropy—they had reporters over for tea, who went on the write that in a nice little piece for the Gazette) sees Oswald finally start to soften a bit. Glimpses of the man she’d once been friends with reemerge in small ways, in moments where he had been warm and considerate toward her instead of reclusive and silent. Instead of speaking to her twice a day—to wish her good morning, when he comes down for breakfast in the late afternoon, and good night, when she’s the one leaving her bedroom in the morning and he’s coming back from the Iceberg, ready to sleep, his greetings based on his life, not hers, he meets her on her own level again.

One morning, he’s awake before she is, and she doesn’t know if he slept all night, or is staying up late, but he’s sitting at the dining room table, waiting for her to join him. He stiffly rustles in his chair, gaze cast away from her, holding his silverware in his fists, the droop of his eyes giving away a sadness, instead of an anger in his rigidity.

“Good morning, Oswald,” she tries as greeting, sitting down quietly across the table from him, instead of beside. She doesn’t want to push it.

“Olga is making a quiche for breakfast today,” he replies, tapping the butt of his knife against the table along with his fist, impatient.

“That sounds lovely,” Sophia’s voice cracks a little and she lifts her chin to compensate for the misdirection of emotion. This moment is too similar to her own childhood for her liking.

Oswald looks at her for a moment—only a moment, eyeliner smudged, eyes sharp—and then looks away, lifting his own chin as well.

Insignificant in the long run, but that morning never leaves Sophia’s memory. What a painting it would make; she jokingly considers commissioning it from someone who could paint based on her description (and photo references alone). _Unhappy Husband and Regretful Wife Share Breakfast_ , on display at the Gotham Museum of Art.

She almost dissolves into giggles as she thinks of the line of enemies they both have, who would love nothing more than to deface it.

Neon-paint punctuation is perhaps the funniest outcome to her; _I took your place, so you should come and take my face._

She needs to stop thinking about that man, but with no analogy for him in her own life, he’s thrown a wrench in her motif. (Maybe it’s a bottle of spray paint? How exciting, to someday have _love_ be an undoing. Sophia looks forward to that blaze, that forest fire.)

The quiche is terrible, and when she asks Oswald if he’ll join her for drinks after their respective work is done, later in the day, and he agrees (despite it being a monosyllabic sound), it starts to taste a little better, a little less bland.

⚭

The first rule of their marriage that was established was that they weren’t allowed to talk about any of the vulnerabilities Sophia used to prey on Oswald’s sympathies. In other words, _both_ of their mothers are forbidden topics. Oswald expanded the list almost daily for the short period leading up to their nuptials and for a time after. Every addition that was personal in nature followed the same pattern with him: do not bring up anything, _anyone_ perceived to him as a failure, a fault, or a former weakness. Having confessed that Sophia’s betrayal, and his subsequent sacrifice to save her, were in light of the fact that, for all the wrongdoings aside, she is the only thing close to a _friend_ he has left (all the others are dead, or he’d driven away), gave his self-protectiveness all the context it needed.

Sophia pulls her car up the driveway and exits quickly, coming around the passenger’s’ side, as she thinks over the rules, and the girl in her car, and acts fast.

“Fuck him,” the young woman declares again, shaking in Sophia’s arms. Her clothes are tattered—Sophia tells her she must be soaked to the bone, which earns another recitation of the same declaration as before. The girl crumples in Sophia’s arms, as they cross the foyer, repeating the same lurching pattern that started from the moment Sophia lifted her out of her car.

She holds the girl by the waist, and hoists her back up, using her fingers as a comb to scope her thick, long, red hair back. Accidentally touching the girl’s forehead results in her howling in pain, as the _vines_ entwined and stretched along her skin recoil from Sophia’s touch.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Sophia chants, meaning it, meaning it heartfeltly. Despite appearance making them look the same age, she knows this is a _child_ suffering like this, and Sophia is _sorry_.

“I don’t want to be here! Fuck him!” the girl shouts, and Zsasz comes out from around the corner just then, gun drawn until he sees who is kneeling on the carpet.

“Boss!” he shouts, sounding _shaken_.

“ _What_ is going on?” Oswald bellows; Sophia can hear his boots as he stomps down the hall, and the clang of his cane as it’s dropped on the hardwood floor when he races forward, running as best he can towards them. He lands on his knees, hard, with no reaction, his face too contorted in pain of a different sort.

“ _Ivy_?”

“Fuck you!” she sobs, and the vines _slither_ , exposing patches of the mud and seaweed-stained, green-tinged skin of her face. “Go to hell!”

Tears slid down Oswald’s cheeks, as he takes in his former partner’s altered appearance. Even Sophia knows she couldn’t have looked like this before.

“W-what happened to you, Ivy? Where have you been, what…what can I do to help—”

“I don’t _want_ your help anymore—fuck off, Oswald!” she starts crying too, burying her face in the wet sleeves of her wool coat.

He keeps crying, silently, a hand clasped over his mouth as he takes in Ivy’s full appearance.

“Are you… _in pain_?”

“I’m going to fix it myself,” Ivy rolls in on herself—to say she’s _wilting_ seems too disturbingly appropriate of a description, “It doesn’t hurt as bad as before…it’s not even any of your business!”

Oswald’s hands hover, and he tentatively reaches out to place them on Ivy’s arms. He moves as gently as a young boy trying to catch an insect in his palms. It’s not hard to imagine a small version of Oswald doing just that, carrying the unfortunate creatures outside, or maybe imprisoning them in glass jars for his own collection.

(Honestly, Sophia can see both, and she assumes that at this rate, she’ll never know him well enough to know which is the truth.)

His hands make contact and Ivy whacks him away. Patient, quietly asking for permission, he tries again, this time enveloping her in his arms, and she collapses against his shoulder once the embrace lands.

“Ivy, I know I was cruel to you, but I never intended for you to _vanish_ without a word. Every day, I’ve been fraught with worry over you.” Oswald keeps shaking his head.

“I was fine, until _she_ found me and dragged me here!” Ivy accuses, her voice muffled, her other arm flung out to point where she thinks Sophia is standing, since she backed away from Ivy, to allow her and Oswald some space. Ivy’s pointing at Zsasz instead, without knowing it, but the point is still clear.

“Since she’s legally underage, from what I understand of your explanation about her, I have the paperwork set to enroll her at the orphanage’s school—”

“You stay _out of this_ ,” Oswald hisses, glaring up at Sophia. “Where were you keeping her all this time?”

“Are you accusing me of the misfortune that’s befallen her, since you drove her _away_ from you, before we even met?” Sophia’s voice is laced with darkness; how _dare_ he, really. “I’ve had my men tracking her down, since you told me you were still searching for her. They found her living in an abandoned drug-growing house in the outskirts of town, with no heat, busted pipes—”

“Fuck you! I could’ve fixed it, once winter was over!” Ivy turns to glare at Sophia, holding Oswald in return, like the one change in tone has made her completely shift alliances. Oswald wasn’t kidding—despite appearance, she really is a teenager.

Another painting moment unfolds before her. Oswald and Ivy make unexpected stand-ins, but the tableau remains the same in theme. Rewind to a decade ago, and the story plays out even there, a moment of weakness, a phone call to the brother busy with med school; a few lines later, Sophia’s forgotten about it. Cue Mario’s entrance, having driven the nine hours from Atlanta to Miami in a rental to save a frightened, fourteen-year-old Sophia from a disaster of her own deviation, a misguided attempt to live with rock stars and roll on drugs as often as possible, hoping their promised divination would deliver her from the family’s divisions.

The same hesitating hug, the same anger at the wrong parties, the same insistence that Mario could go to hell and she would see him there if he so much as spoke to her again. She’d punched and kicked and screamed, she’d almost broken his nose, and he still carried her away, petted her hair while she came down, like their mother did when Sophia was small. He’d brought her a plate full of hotel buffet breakfast; he screwed up a whole semester’s worth of exams to stay a week with her, while she recovered, while she alternated between cursing him out and confessing everything.

That painting is too sad to give a title. The only one she can think of is _I Miss You_.

“So you claim you weren’t involved in hiding her, then?” Oswald asks; his tone is more curious, but still accusatory. Ivy lowers her head to his shoulder and hollers in agony again, flinching as her body fights her. Eyes widening in horror, Oswald trembles and fresh tears fall from his eyes.

Sophia stalks forward, bending in a curve around the prone teenager, as she descends on Oswald, coming to stand directly before him, the toes of her heels almost stabbing his thigh. Towering over him, she looms down, and speaks slowly, her throat wet with rage and her own repressed tears.

“Whatever grudge you continue to hold against me is your own issue. Choose to view me however you wish, Oswald, but know this—I am not a _monster_.”

Oswald doesn’t look so proud, small on the floor like this. Even Ivy stares up at her, her incredulous gaze still clear through her murky, yet luminescent pupils.

“Villainize me for trying to help you in return for all you’ve done for me, I don’t care. Your life is such a pathetic, disgusting _mess_ , that the minute it gets better, you now assume conspiracy instead of kindness? Can you even accept actual kindness, from anyone, without trying to spit in their face?”

“Hey _bitch_ , lay off. Pengy’s an asshole but—”

“ _Language_ , Ivy!” Oswald chides. “You don’t sound adult, if that’s your goal!”

“—you don’t know his life, or the shit he’s been through, you don’t know how he almost died, you weren’t—”

“I know _all_ I need to know about it,” Sophia challenges, deciding she’s had enough. Turning towards the exit, from where she came, she tells Oswald over her shoulder that she intends to drive back to her office, and that she’ll be home later. The words come out without forethought; they’re informed by muscle memory, a lifetime of having to always know just what calm statement her father expected to have come out her mouth, _lady-like_.

“Why did you do this for me?” Oswald calls out, more scared and unsure than vicious, like before.

“It was for _me_ , you _dick_ ,” Ivy interjects.

“I did it for myself,” Sophia answers, her upper lip trembling. “I didn’t want another young woman to be without her protective, older brother, like I’ve had to.”

Zsasz’s face twitches (she didn’t even head him come up behind her), and he takes the open door from her. “See you later, _missus_ ,” he snarks, fake-smiling as she steps out of the mansion.

⚭

The first time Sophia tried to tell Oswald about the letters, about a week after their marriage, ended up with her at knifepoint.

“Don’t you _ever_ speak of Martin again,” Oswald threatens, heaving with fury, the handle of his cane clutched in his fist and the concealed blade against her skin. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“Fine,” Sophia answers, trembling despite herself. “Please at least take a moment to consider if this is how you would want him to see you treat your spouse.”

Oswald wrenches away at that, and stumbles backwards, before tearing out of the room, leaving Sophia to double over and heave, riding out the panic in private. Some mobster she is turning out to be, so easily unnerved all the time.

That was truly the only “bad moment” in their whole relationship, and with everything that had come to pass with the young boy, not shocking. Still, Sophia was glad that was the end to any further outbursts of animosity between them—until the Ivy reunion, of course.

Sophia fully expected Oswald to throw her out that night, or change his mind about stabbing her, when he stormed into the room adjacent to her bedroom—an old smoking room, converted into a study for her. Reaching for the gun she’d already had ready in the folds of her skit, pooled in her lap, she watches him with steely eyes, judging his every micro-expression.

“Ivy claims to be of legal age to appeal for emancipation,” Oswald explains, tone overly-formal, his eyes mostly closed, eyebrows raised when he exhales quickly out his nose. “If forced to appear on legal records, she would rather that, than adoption or belonging to the state. I would prefer to keep her records _private_ , so that her life is not more complex than it already is. In her current state, making a court appearance seems unnecessary.”

“I agree,” Sophia takes her finger off the trigger. Oswald seems calm. “I only wanted to present you with the option.”

“Much appreciated, but not necessary,” Oswald manages that answer without any illusion to humorous or mocking intent; Sophia is impressed.

“Well,” Sophia says.

“Yes, well…it’s been a busy day,” Oswald replies with a smile and a flash of his teeth, his head tilted diagonally. “Ivy is resting, and arrangements have been made for the greenhouse on property to be renovated to her specifications. I…have no doubts to the claim she makes that she can cure her own condition, having personally experienced the beneficial properties of the skills and knowledge she’s obtained in her short years.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Oswald nods, and bites his own lip.

“Thank you,” he manages, after a pause.

“You’re welcome.” There’s nothing else to say.

Nodding, Oswald makes his exit, but before he leaves, Sophia whips open a drawer and pulls out a bundle of letters. “Oswald, wait!”

She’s an _idiot_ for doing this. She’s an idiot for doing this, but…

“Wh—” Oswald starts to ask before she cuts him off.

“Please, take these. You know who they’re from. Please, at least read them.” She swallows and braces herself against the desk as Oswald advances. It’s not fear, it’s…too many things to name that course through her veins in the moment.

“He’s written to me as well, once or twice, to let me know how he is, since he…he was sent away from Gotham. He said Madrid is lovely, and that it’s fun, studying and using Spanish again, but he has a lot of vocabulary to catch up on.”

Oswald’s eyes shine with tears as he reaches out for the packet, all the little envelopes tied together with a bow.

“It’s not a manipulation. It’s honest words from a little boy who looks up to you very much. I used to slip letters like this under the door for my father to read, when I was lonely for him, and they always ended up in the trash.”

Every inch of his face trembles, as he wraps unsteady fingers around the ribbon.

“Why are you doing these things for me?”

No moment makes Sophia feel more pity for this man she once saw as weak, who once saw her as a friend. It makes her _heart ache_ that his view of the world is as distorted as it is.

It makes her doubly sick that her own behavior in this world has been questionable at best, when children are involved. Never did she expect the guilt to hurt. It never hurt her father—never stopped Gotham from churning more people out like her family, like Oswald, like any of them. Mario was her only guide in this life and none of this ever touched him enough to do to him what having the blood in her veins has done to her.

“Why did you marry me instead of kill me?” she finally counters, and looks away, dragging her fingertip through the corner of her eyelids.

It’s not a question she needs answered. It’s not a question of all.

It’s a statement of intent.

And after it, the air between them starts to clear.

⚭

The only time she and Oswald seem to see each other was when one of them is coming and the other is going. This night, Sophia is the one not moving. She’s not even at Oswald’s mansion, but back at the Falcone estate, so there will be no path-crossing tonight.

It’s completely unexpected that Oswald finds her here, that he bothers coming to look, and yet he arrives, all flustered breathing and pursed lips as he takes in the state she’s sure she in on the lounge by the dining table.

“ _Why_ are you here?” Oswald enunciates each word so hard he almost hisses. A quick look around produces no sighting of Zsasz; he must have come alone. That speaks volumes to the level that he’s starting to trust her at again.

“Oswald. My _husband_ ,” Sophia slurs, waves her glass in the air. “Come, sit. Have a drink with me—no, a _toast_. The world is changing, and our lives are unmoored from their previous postings.”

“Sophia—”

“My father is dead. I am the last remaining Falcone. Now sit. Drink with me.”

Oswald does as asked; he sits beside her, instead of away. “I am…sorry for your loss,” he finally speaks, rubbing the curved handle of his cane. “I admired your father, and I also know how such a loss feels. If there’s…anything I can do for you, please…”

“Oh, shut up and _drink_ , Oswald! I don’t care about how much everyone _respected_ and _admired_ him. Drink, drink!”

Oswald clicks his tongue and looks about. “There…there are no other glasses.”

Sophia blinks, realizes he’s right. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry. Here, have this one.” She passes off her own glass tumbler to him and grabs the bottle for herself, taking a swig before slumping back in the cushions.

He holds the glass awkwardly, turning it back and forth, her lipstick stains almost around the entire rim. “Sophia, I…I don’t…”

Sophia leans in, eyes wide and blood pumping. “Oswald, do you want to kill someone with me?”

He gapes. “As…hypocritical as I would be to say that I don’t _also_ use that as a way to blow off steam, trust me when I say it’s never as satisfying as it seems, it—”

“I want to kill James Gordon,” she grins, grimaces, feels the world tip slightly south. “You know that’s why I came here, right? Oh, the rest is true. I wanted to live in Gotham. I missed it. I wanted the estate to myself. I wanted the _crime_ to myself. All that toying with you I did…I’m sorry for it. It was so easy, to get wrapped up in all of it…I mean, you know. You tried to destroy him.”

Sophia waves a finger at Oswald. She knows her words are slurred, and no doubt he’s shocked, hearing her informal speech for the first time, but she’s too drunk to give a damn.

“ _You_ got further than I ever did, got _more_ attention from my father then I’m sure I ever did in a quarter century of knowing the man. But that’s the _thing_ , Oswald. Why do you think I was so drawn to you? You succeeded where everyone else _failed_. Your own life, a _mess_ , but that one, beautiful usurping…how could I not draw some inspiration from that, not _admire that_ in some strange way? I meant it, all those times I said I didn’t want to see you turn out like him. I meant every offer of partnership I gave,” she’s confusing herself, “even though it was fake, I _meant_ them, understand? Until they all failed, and I resorted to…well, you said that was _another_ thing we’re never to speak of again, correct?”

Oswald visibly swallows. “Yes, it is,” he responds, stoically.

“What’s the whole list?” Sophia puts down the bottle on the low table in front of her, and sits back, counting off on her fingers, holding the fingertip of each one as she goes along. “Your mother, _my_ mother, Martin, the war, and…Jim Gordon never made the list, did he? Maybe because we never bothered going over it much after the first time we covered it. I slept with him, it was so disgusting,” she mutters, shaking her head, “and I fucked with his career, and I tried to bring him to his knees, in a _lot_ of ways, but it was all so he was in the perfect place for me _to slit his throat_ ,” she growls, lunging forward to pantomime the act—then grabs the bottle again, take another swing.

“He took Mario from me,” Sophia turns to Oswald to say that, tears in her eyes, lips drawn in as she holds back. “It still hurts, every day. Does it still hurt for you, the family you’ve lost?”

“Yes,” Oswald whispers. He rubs at an edge of the glass with his thumb and throws back the contents of the glass.

Sophia blearily stares at the dull reflection of the fire in the wood polish on the table. “You know, my father wouldn’t even teach me how to run the family business? What a let-down I was. _Female_. And my mother’s adamancy about Mario being a _Calvi_ , not a _Falcone_ …she didn’t think to offer the same protests to my father about me, because she knew I was safe from the business _solely_ on principle of gender.”

“That was ignorant of him,” Oswald blurts out.

Sophia turns back again slowly to stare. “Thank you, Oswald, for recognizing that. It _was_ ignorant. I had to teach myself everything I know. I’m a self-made gangster, like you, did you know that? I never truly had the opportunity to tell you. We have quite a lot in common. I own a franchise of clubs in Miami, for instance. With Daddy’s death, I’m just going to sell them. My horses, too. There’s really no place for them in Gotham. I can find them good homes.”

Oswald gestures, as if to interrupt Sophia, but she whacks him away. “This is important, Oswald, so listen. I met a woman of my father’s, when I was young, when we were still here, in Gotham. Her name was Maria. She had the most _stunning_ eyes…piercing, unforgettable. I don’t know what my father was doing with her, and I never wanted to, even at that young age I wasn’t that naïve. But she was always kind to me, the few times we crossed paths, were left alone together. In my childlike innocence, I did ask her if she was also a mobster, and she told me, ‘Not yet, babygirl, but someday soon, I will be, just as soon as I’ve learned enough.’ Few years later, she was running her own club, and a few after that, I heard she turned against my father. Like all of us did in the end.”

Bracing her palm on her thigh, Sophia throws her head, trying to toss her hair out of her face, riding out the worst of the wave of dizzy passing over her. “Don’t you want to kill Jim for what he did to Fish? I do. As if Mario wasn’t bad enough…he had to go and take someone important from _both_ our pasts.”

Swallowing again, Oswald grips the glass in his hand so tightly that his thumb manages to crack it, one side sliding in to be caught by the center.

And then, he starts laughing. Shaking and quaking, each of his limbs twitching, he laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and throws the glass across the room to hit the far wall. It shatters on impact.

Weeks, _months_ Sophia has waited to see Oswald express the raging ocean of emotions always undercurrent in him. Their marriage, the defeat implicit in it, has silenced him, and now, _now_ Sophia is no longer afraid of what unpredictability Oswald may unleash. It’s infectious, how _alive_ he us, unfrozen from his own prison, and Sophia feels the same urge to walk toward the lick of flame Oswald’s immolated himself in, and let it _consume_ her.

“I do!” he smiles, voice high and wild, “I do! I do want to kill him! All this time I’ve been faking, pretending that the fondness I once had for him _matters_ , that it was the _virus_ , but I don’t care! I want him dead!” He pivots and faces Sophia, eyes wild and face contorted. “I want him dead!”

“I always knew I was going to have to marry a man in the lifestyle someday, you know,” Sophia pats Oswald’s arm, rubs it fondly once, then twice. “I’m glad it was you,” she confesses, voice still thick with drink, but no less sincere. “I’m _lucky_ it was you.”

⚭

A quiet domesticity settles over the Van Dahl mansion when Martin comes to visit. Ivy’s condition had improved considerably by that point, and the two children bond with each other quickly, Ivy already seeming to decide it’s her place to guard over who is essentially her younger sibling.

“No, like this,” she motions again, hands moving too quickly for Sophia to process the meaning behind. “You do it like this.”

Martin watches raptly, and imitates. Ivy claps thrice and praises him for getting it down. Sophia smiles behind her espresso cup, then pulls another small sip from it. The sun is bright, pouring into the open-ceiling of the courtyard, tranquility descending on what is usually such a dark and sober estate.

She’s been spending more and more time at the Falcone house, to give the makeshift family some space, but at Oswald’s invitation, she’s to spend the afternoon with her new family.

Oswald makes some awful, sort of snoring noise, but in reverse intent—he wakes abruptly, lifts Sophia’s Ray-Bans up his forehead and off his face to look at the children, and squints.

“What are they doing?” he asks, voice froggy.

“She’s teaching him how to sign, I believe,” Sophia answers, stretching her thin legs out on the chaise lounge chair, her trousers wrinkling. Since the little _bonding session_ she and Oswald had at Jim’s apartment two weeks ago, she’s taken to dressing like she normally would again, confident and butch, shedding the old-world feminine guise she crafted to fit who she was when she was still caught between the web of men in her life—Jim, Oswald, Father. Oswald gave an approving nod when she arrived in a dark brown, pinstripe suit, said it was _becoming_.

Martin opens his mouth, hesitates with his hands, then lets them fly, making signs in a flurry, fervent and _fluent_. She knows he’s been learning Lengua de Signos Españoles, but this seems to be his first experience with ASL. She’d planned on hiring an instructor for him when he was at the orphanage, but…events transpired faster than she’d had a chance to go through resumes.

Ivy grins, hands still clasped together, close to her chest, before she launches into a reply.

“What are you two doing!” Oswald demands, shouting; he’s still sickly-looking, despite the sun, lounging in rumpled pinstripes himself. They did drink excessively the last two weeks. Sophia assumes he’s been maintaining here at home, whether she’s around or not.

“I’m teaching him something important, _Pengy_ , you got a problem with that?”

“ _How_ do _you_ know how to do that?”

“A lady who used to help me out when I was on the streets as a kid spoke it. I picked it up from her. You obviously weren’t gonna teach him.”

“I don’t know _how_!”

Martin reaches for his abandoned board and pen, and starts writing. He touches Ivy’s elbow when he’s done, she and Oswald still shouting across the courtyard at each other, and she reads it carefully.

“I…will…teach…you,” she talks to herself as she translates and signs slowly for Martin he necessary gestures, and he imitates. They practice it once more together, in tandem, Ivy saying out loud what each sign represents, and then she shouts out, “ _Martin says he’ll teach you, Oswald!_ ”

“I’m sure he wanted to tell you that himself, but neither of them are going to come over here when I’m here,” Sophia notes, stirring her cup by swirling the liquid inside, through motion.

“Nonsense,” Oswald huffs, dropping the sunglasses back in place. (She had to insist he put them on; his complaints about how bright it was too incessant to bear.) “I wouldn’t have _either_ of them back in my life if it wasn’t for you.”

Now it’s Sophia’s turn to be stunned almost into silence. “You know quite well _exactly_ what I had planned for at least one of them, and yet you can still bring yourself to say that?” She blinks slowly, bites her lip, frowns. “ _How_?”

Oswald looks far into a distance she knows no one but him can see. “You once told me that I would be wise to remember that you were a mobster and not a monster.” He drops his head to his shoulder and sighs. “ _I’m_ a monster, Sophia. There’s many things about me you still don’t know. What I’ve done…”

Sophia finishes her espresso. “There’s no need to fret, Oswald. Neither of us have clean hands.”

⚭

The woman Oswald had murdered is beautiful. _Beautiful_.

It’s a detail Sophia can’t forget.

⚭

Sophia returns to living at his mansion when the children are gone; there isn’t much of their respective business ventures that coincide anymore, not with everything being conducted under the Falcone name, but the company is welcomed (while she is used to it, being alone in the Falcone estate is never a very pleasant way to pass the time—not pleasant on her mental state, or memories).

“Oswald,” she calls out, walking through the living room, looking for him.

“Yes?” he calls out, appearing in the archway a moment later. “What can I assist you with?”

“Nothing,” Sophia purses her lips and shrugs, cocking one eyebrow at the same time. “I’m…lonely. Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”

Flustering, Oswald gestures for her to sit down. “Of course, of course. I’ll tell Olga to brew us a pot.” He does so by bellowing down the hallway. It makes Sophia’s shoulders jump, but does also bring a smile to her face.

“I have something to show you, in fact,” Oswald remarks, as he walks out from behind where Sophia seated herself. “I…do hope it’s appreciated, and not…out of line.”

He gestures for her to watch what he’s doing, as he walks over to the left wall and rips down a curtain. Two paintings are underneath. One instantly recognizable as Fish Mooney herself, and the other…

Mario.

A _painting_. Sophia smiles.

They look similar, in a way, Sophia notes—her brother and Oswald—in the broad strokes, in the details that matter. Not just a penchant for wearing _mascara_ and _eyeliner_ , but in other ways, the ways which inform character and status. A prominent nose. Striking eyes. Classically coiffed hair. Both of them exude the same air…to Sophia, at least. Protective. Possessive. Passionate, certainly, if that’s not odd to notice. There’s no denying how impassioned they are about the lives they chose for themselves.

Of course, that cartoonish aesthetic of Oswald’s has never escaped Sophia’s amusement; Mario’s _peacefulness_ was as bizarre in the world they grew up in, so many strange men just fail to amaze or surprise Sophia.

They feel normal, compared to the gangsters, the cops, the prostitutes, drug lords, club owners. Girls who train horses for a _hobby_.

No. These two feel like _home_.

“It’s a perfect likeness. What a lovely gift, Oswald. Thank you.” Sophia rises to go look at the painting up-close. “I wasn’t even allowed to fly in for the wedding. The last chance I would have ever had to see him. Father didn’t want me back in Gotham, and I was stupid enough at the time to obey him.”

“Y-you can keep it here, or I can have it taken to your estate,” Oswald gestures.

“I’m going to be staying here for the foreseeable future. So can he. If I ever need to change locations, I’ll ask to relocate him then.”

Fingers draped on the frame around Mario, she smiles at Fish’s painting, then at Oswald. “I’ve known more of _family_ here than I ever did as a Falcone. _Thank you_.”

Oswald waves her away, but now without smiling in return first.

⚭

One night, they talk so long that Sophia is the one to cave and request to go to bed mid-conversation. She is almost a decade younger than him, and in considerably better health, but he often possesses more energy at night than she does, being an early riser herself.

Starting and stopping, Oswald stammers, his eyelids flickering as he tries to process what next to say. “Should I accompany you?” he asks, and Sophia shrugs.

“If you’d like…I’m just going to get changed, then usually I read for a bit. If you want to continue our conversation, I can’t guarantee I’ll be insightful much longer, but we can prolong our goodnights for at least a half-hour.” She rises and starts for the staircase, Oswald following behind, taking a few steps at a time, then pausing—steps, then pausing.

Unlocking her door, she slips behind the dressing screen, unfastening her suit buttons swiftly, tossing each piece over the side, and sliding into her satin robe for sleep. “Make yourself comfortable,” she tells Oswald, and hears him settle on her bed, the creak of the springs whining as wood meets wood when he balances his cane against the footrest.

Making her way over to her cherry wood vanity, Sophia grabs her bristle hair brush and starts combing her hair in long, careful strokes. “I wouldn’t count Valeska out just yet,” she offers, as Oswald’s gone completely silent. “From what I’ve heard of him, he’s wildly unpredictable, but he does sound beneficial as an ally.”

“No doubt you’re right,” Oswald responds, curt and low-toned.

Sophia lifts her eyebrows, shrugging of his sudden disinterest in their prior conversation, and preps a cotton swab with micellar water to cleanse her face. “Pyg, however, was worthless,” she tacks on, and Oswald agrees, humming without opening his mouth.

Oswald’s being odd. He’s not silent like this anymore, not since they’d settled their differences and found true common ground, established a true friendship. Sophia can’t figure it out.

“And the Narrows is of no concern right now, so it’s a good time to seek new alliances.” She fluffs the pillow and hops up on the bed, resting her back against the soft down, legs crossed, hands draped in her lap, robe pooled between her thighs. Oswald’s sitting inches from her, gripping his own knees, pensive and avoidant.

“Oswald, are you listening?”

He turns slowly, essentially _glares_ at her. “Yes,” is all he answers, before flicking his eyes away, toward the wall.

Sophia sighs. “If you’re cross with me about something, or suspicious, can you _tell me_ so we can square it away now instead of letting it drag on again? I have no interest in repeating our past.”

“I’m not cross with you…” he sounds meek and _whiny_ , and Sophia catches herself rolling her eyes, flicks a fingertip along her lashes instead, as if dislodging something stuck there, clicking her tongue as she opens her jaw.

“Well then, I think we might as well say our goodnights now, since you’re no longer _talking_.”

Oswald throws his palms flat against the bed and grips the duvet tightly under his fingers. “A moment, please,” he says through gritted teeth.

Pouncing forward on her hands, Sophia examines his countenance. “Oswald, _what_ is the matter with you? You’re concerning me.” She laughs lightly, despite her words’ gravity. She _is_ perturbed by him right now.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “Don’t be concerned,” he murmurs, bringing his hand to rest on top of hers. Only then does he bring his head back down and blink blearily, his mouth set in a hard line. With a swift move, he pivots in place and brings his other hand to her waist. Eyes closed, he brings his face close to hers and—

“Oswald, _what_ are you doing? Please, stop.” She puts a hand between them and gestures for him to sit back.

“I—I don’t know. Of course. I’m sorry.” He drops his hand and bores his gaze into the pattern of the bedspread.

“I don’t…” Sophia truthfully can say she’s never found herself in quite this position before. _First marriage_ and all. “I don’t mean _any_ offense, Oswald, but I don’t want to ever do that with you.”

He nods, head still dropped low.

“I’m…frankly surprised _you_ wanted to. It’s…never come up between us before, it seemed perfectly presumable that you also didn’t—”

“I _don’t_ ,” he rasps, then sniffs. “I don’t.”

Sophia wrinkles her brow. “Then why now?”

“I wasn’t doing it for me.” Oswald rolls the hand propping him up into a fist. “It was for _you_. For your sake.”

Her eyes go wide. “ _My_ sake? What for?”

He swallows thickly before continuing. “Since that night at your estate…the night after your father died. You said you were _lucky_ to have married me, instead of…someone else. Surely you had suitors, prospects for a _happy_ future.” His voice is wrought with sadness. “You mention often how _lonely_ you are.” He mock-punches the bed, trembling with emotion. “Being married to me condemns you to a life where you are forever forced to remain unfulfilled. While ours was a marriage of… _convenience_ , I—” he lifts his head and his eyes shine with tears. “I _am_ a gentleman, I…I was _raised to be one_ , and if I must do something I don’t desire to, just to bring someone I care about happiness—”

Sophia’s only let him go on this long because she knows from experience to not cut him off when he’s on the precipice of a rant, but his last confession is too much, too far, and she reaches out to silence him with her fingertips, gently.

“That’s enough, Oswald.” All she ever does is say his name; he rarely, if ever, says hers. “Had I known my remarks would be interpreted like this, I would have chosen different words. Having you as a marriage partner is _preferable_ for me, because you ask nothing more of a marital bond than I am willing to give.”

Jerking, Oswald stares at her.

Tilting her head, Sophia regards him, and the situation. “You _do know_ I’m a lesbian, correct?”

Now it’s Oswald’s turn to look shocked. “Pardon me?”

“You really didn’t know, all this time? I didn’t think it was a secret.”

Oswald’s mouth crosses from a gasp of shock to a grin of confusion. “No, that is not something about you I was ever going to ascertain, not with _known facts_ contradicting it?”

“What specifically are you referencing?” Indignation still slices its way into Sophia’s retort. She wracks her mind to figure out what direction Oswald is coming from. “My utter _falsehood_ of a relationship with—”

He raises a hand, asking for silence. They try not to speak his name anymore—too much weight, too much culpability inherent _just_ in remembering.

“To reiterate, Oswald, it was _fake_. I was _faking it_.” Sophia scoffs. “You don’t even know anything about that, other than that it happened! I convinced him _very_ early into our time ‘together’ that he should allow me to indulge him in his deepest fantasies, which involved a _strap-on_.” Oswald’s eyes go ludicrously wide, but Sophia isn’t feeling amused at the moment. “Besides—it’s not as if fucking _anyone_ would alter my identity that easily. If I had taken you up on your advance, would _you_ no longer be gay, either?”

Stammering, Oswald flushes and chokes out a response. “I’ve never seen you have a relationship with anyone but a _man_ , I’m sorry for presuming you were straight!”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

In a flash, Oswald rises from the bed, grabs his cane, and brushing his vest down, advances towards the exit.

“Oswald!” Sophia shouts.

Turning in the doorframe, Oswald shoots back, “Of course, you’re right. I would be what you say I am. Nothing in my life has ever altered that.”

And with that, he slams her door shut, no doubt already stalking away on the other side of it.

⚭

After an angry, restless attempt to ignore what had transpired, Sophia gives up on sleep, rises, and goes to find Oswald. He might be a night owl, but he’s also a notorious homebody. With the club closed tonight, he’s sure to be sulking somewhere on property.

It isn’t hard to follow the smell of cigarette smoke, once she picks it up, and follows it to one of the three smaller libraries. Sitting in the window seat, Oswald sips a glass of wine and flicks cigarette ash out the partially-cracked window.

Clutching her arms close to her chest, Sophia prepares herself to ask if she can join him, then decides against it, marching into the room with assurance that the worst he’ll do, if she sits before him without _permission_ , is get up in a huff and leave again, to which she’ll threaten to keep following him.

Gripping her robe tight against the cold air wafting into the room, Sophia slides in across from Oswald and grab the bottle of wine, wanting a sip.

“Why do you always have to drink liquor out of the _bottle_?” Oswald asks, grumpy and put-upon. There’s tears in his eyes, but his voice doesn’t betray them. “ _Pretend_ to be civilized. Get a glass.”

She remembers their wedding day and tries not to laugh. Oswald would never follow his own advice, anyway.

“You complain at me about trivial things, as if we’ve been married half a century, do you know that?”

Oswald doesn’t respond. He flicks the small nub of his cigarette that remains out the window and reaches for the pack besides him, lighting another. Sophia reaches for the pack herself once he’s done, joining him in smoking.

“May I ask you to clarify something?” Sophia says.

He doesn’t respond, only stares out the windows as he sucks on his cigarette. “Stop being formal. I’m not in the mood,” he finally says.

“You are gay, aren’t you?”

“ _Yes_ , last time I checked, that _was_ the word for it.” His words are biting and cruel, which Sophia finds odd.

“Is it not something you call yourself, though?”

Oswald wrenches the bottle of wine away from her and tops off his glass. “It’s something I’ve never been afforded the _luxury_ of exploring. I chose this instead, didn’t I?”

Sophia tilts her head to the side.

“The _business_ ,” Oswald clarifies, “not _you_.”

Biting her lip, Sophia lifts her head and then nods it, looking out the window herself. The lawn is dark and peaceful at this time of night, the fog rolling along the manicured slopes, down to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the property. Sophia and Oswald are the only two at the mansion tonight, yet the property doesn’t feel so barren. Oswald’s hinted a few times that he might have a fear of ghosts. Sophia would say that was ridiculous (and _very_ Oswald), but she believes in ghosts, too, of the variety taught in psychology textbooks, the kind people spend a lifetime trying to dull or indulge or destroy.

Both of them are haunted, and maybe that means both of them will never be alone.

“I came out for the first time when I was thirteen,” Sophia rolls the ash off the cherry of her cigarette, against the metal framework inside the window, while she opens up first. “I always have known, ever since I can remember, but when I had my first real crush, I thought it was time I let those around me know. Do you know what my father said to me, when I told him?”

Oswald watches, not interacting with her story, but clearly listening to it, taking a drag of his smoke, his fingers wrapped around his mouth and jaw, knuckles white, cigarette clenched between his lips.

“He said, ‘Things of that nature aren’t spoken of by name in Gotham—you’ll do well to remember that now’ and also, ‘This changes nothing about the expectations you have before you, as the daughter of a Falcone.’ He never brought it up again, and any attempt I made to was silenced. It only took him a few hours to find out about my classmate-turned-pseudo-girlfriend, and he arranged for me to move to Miami by the end of the day.”

Sophia sniffles and turns it into a cough at the last second, not wanting to cry in front of Oswald. The story is had to reiterate, no matter how old she gets. “Luckily for me, Mario insisted that he come with me, and while Father wouldn’t allow that, he did let Mario transfer schools to the south, so we weren’t _as_ far apart as we could have been.”

Tossing the cigarette, Sophia stretches her back and hums, skin prickled from the cool temperature. “It’s not all depressing, however. I own the five hottest gay nightclubs in Miami, I’ve thrown who I am, proudly, in everyone’s face, all my life, and I’ve never had a lack of the kind of relationships I want at my disposal…I also don’t have a problem accepting that, as things stand— _stood_ , under the old order, I would have to have a few _Jims_ here and there, fake my way through this or that. Nothing I was forced into, nothing I didn’t walk into, fully knowing my goals were worth temporary deceit. At least my father died knowing his only remaining heir married a man he _hated_.” Sophia beams, dropping her head to rest against the paneling behind her.

Breathing out his nose in shaking, ill-timed steps, Oswald downs his wineglass, then meets Sophia’s eyes. “I didn’t always know. Granted, I knew who I found attractive, and who I didn’t, and I knew I would never be the _ladies’ man_ my mother seemed to assume I would be—I wouldn’t even be the _gentleman_ she hoped she was raising me to be. Not in _that_ way.” He wipes at his eyes, keeps his face turned to the glass. “I feared Hell, and damnation, almost as much as I feared the church she forced me to go to. What a grand, and frightening building it was. I never dated, never spoke about it, never sought it out. All for naught—the people I worked with knew. The other children, when I was young, before I could drop out, _knew_.”

Oswald’s breathing grows shakier as he continues. “Fish knew. She’s the only person I ever ‘came out’ to.” He makes quotes in the air with his fingers—such a classically repressed Gothamite tone to his voice. “We were once close in that way, early one, in a way where I, at least, felt safe sharing secrets. It felt safer, telling her, since I knew we had…that differing factor in common.” Oswald shrugs and sighs. “Ivy knows too, only because she guessed it. She…saw some… _events_ that…left it undoubtedly obvious. _Zsasz_ of all people and I have shared a conversation about it too, when he randomly announced how _fluid_ his proclivities are, once.”

Sophia screws her lips up, eyebrows raised. “Oh, I don’t think that was random. You know Zsasz would sleep with you in an instant, right?”

Clicking his mouth open, Oswald looks _astonished_. “I—I don’t— _what_?”

“You didn’t know? You couldn’t tell?” Sophia chuckles, and catches her knuckles in her mouth. “I’m sorry, it’s just so _obvious_.”

Tutting, Oswald brushes the idea away with a hand. “That’s—I will process _that_ information later, I’m…somewhat infamous for not being able to tell these things, I suppose…”

With a thunk, Oswald plants his head back against the wood frame behind him, too, and sighs, clenching his free hand into a fist. “There’s something I’ve never shared with you, Sophia. I assumed you already knew, but I would…I would like to tell it in my own words, if you’ll have it? No doubt you’ve heard the stories. Many of them made up…many of them made up by _me_.”

Not wanting to break the peaceful trance settling over them in this moment, Sophia worries her lip as she wonders how to proceed next. “Your former chief of staff doesn’t have a brain disorder—not…not _before_ he was frozen. He’s also, as I think I am learning now, after the initial whisperings I’d been wrongly told, he’s…he’s not your ex, is he?” She doesn’t plan to ever admit that she’s already looked into all of this herself, doesn’t wonder about the details she still doesn’t possess often.

Oswald shakes his head and laughs weakly, wearily.

“I only froze him so I wouldn’t have to kill him. He is so _single-minded_ and fixated, obsessively so, when he gets an idea in his mind, that he’ll never stop until I’m dead, will never listen to reason or apology or—” Oswald shakes his head. “You don’t need the details of who or how he is, pardon me. You’ll never even meet the man, I’m sure.”

“I’ve had ample opportunity to arrange it, but no, I haven’t met him, only seen him from afar. I have had many meetings with his new self-appointed boss, however.”

Oswald looks at her sharply.

“What? I’m still grieving over Mario, of _course_ I travelled down to the Narrows to finally meet my sister-in-law. We have lunch every so often.”

Groaning, Oswald slumps, pensively pursing his lips. “Well, I hope _stupid Ed_ enjoyed seeing my _wife_ gallivanting around all the time. You think I’m repressed—no, don’t try to deny it,” he cuts her off, when she tried to interrupt, “I can tell what is passing over your face, I am _married_ to you. The point is, if you think I’m repressed, then I _know_ , with certainty, that you haven’t met Ed yet.”

“You still love him,” Sophia says softly, and with a quiet awe in her words. It was presumable that he did, but there’s something… _sad_ about it now, now that’s she’s grown fond of Oswald, familiar with him.

It’s perhaps normal to feel sorry for one’s best friend, to see them be trapped in such tumultuous, tragic love.

“Of course I do,” Oswald scrunches his face up, soft and hard all at once. “And the worst part is, I still believe he does, too.”

“ _Everything_ he does is about you. It’s more than a logical assumption.”

Oswald exhales shakily and threads his fingers along the windowsill, drumming nervously. “Here’s something I never tell _anyone_. Take it as a gift for my earlier embarrassments. There are a few times in my life, where the forces of fate at play, and the path I am on, the network that connects all these things, is as visible to me as a cloud-free day.” He swallows, and a tear slips down from his eye. “Like the morning I woke up, _floating_ with how in love with Ed I realized I was.”

He wipes at his face. “I’ve never once been wrong, when I’ve had those moments of…prophecy. It’s the kind of witchcraft story says runs in the blood of my mother’s people—that, in itself, would be some absurd tale, if I didn’t _know_ it was _true_. I knew Ed loved me, too, that morning, and I _still do_. If you doubt the validity of that _sight_ of mine, it’s how I brought your father, and the rest of them, down. It’s _proven_ itself time and time over.”

Sophia takes a moment to breathe, just breathe, and consider what to say. “Let’s finally go on a honeymoon. I can show you Miami—the city will go _wild_ with my return. I’ll show you my clubs—there’s every type of person there you can envision, even…what seems to be your type. You can date, do—”

Oswald starts and Sophia stops him. “You can do _whatever_ you like, Oswald. The ocean air will do you good, both of us good. Then, after you’ve had a rest from all that has exhausted you here in Gotham, and your… _intended_ has had time to wallow and vacillate in his own misconstrued beliefs, you can come back, and you can try again.”

He scoffs, smiling sardonically. “You make it sound so simple.”

Stretching her arms, Sophia slides the window shut and nabs the bottle of wine, preparing to take off with it. She’s beyond done-in, and Oswald clearly needs to be maudlin _sans_ extra alcohol. “It’s likely because I’ve never experienced any love that grand. For all its horror, it sounds…fascinating. I’ll let you know how it goes when it happens to me.”

⚭

Oswald won’t take more than a weekend away from Gotham, but he does at least fly down, spends the whole time sweltering in a velvet-lined three-piece suit, and cheers with enthusiasm when Sophia wins first place in her first drag show since returning to Miami.

It’s not like Sophia wouldn’t have _always_ won (she had more prizes from her years on the stage than she could count) but it did help that she stole so many pieces for her ensemble from Oswald himself.

It’s nice, peaceful and _nice_ , that everything in the end worked out.

⚭

One late afternoon, at the orphanage, after the children have finished with school for the day, and Sophia is almost ready to leave for the day, after she finishes authorizing the latest expense reports, Oswald barges into her office, frenzied and flushed in the face.

“Sophia!”

“Oswald,” she cautions, with an outstretched hand. “I know that look all too-well, _what_ do you have planned? Sit and discuss it with me first.”

He ignores her request and stands proudly before her, both hands on his cane, beaming smile on his face. “I’d like to get a divorce from you.”

Sophia brushes both sides of her hair out of her face, trying not to gape. “What…what has changed, Oswald? We still have our arrangement in place—if there’s anyone you want to be involved with, you have my full blessing, just please let me know who he is, if he’s high-profile…”

Oswald’s lips curl with the strength of his smile.

“Should I be checking you for a trace of green glitter, then?” she asks, eyebrows raised high.

“Your sister-in-law says _Hello_ , by the way.”

Drumming the table with her knuckles, Sophia can do little but let a smile play at her own lips. “Do I need to question you about hastiness?”

“No need, _Mother_ , but thank you for the thought.”

 _That_ surprises Sophia. In good enough spirits to crack that kind of joke? “I will only present a counter-argument once, because I know, had it been me who came to you with a request like this, you would grant it, if it were truly what I wanted. So, don’t be mistaken, I intend to do the same, but…we do make incredible partners, Oswald. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer the shield of our false guise to the world, and the security that comes with _privacy_ for what you hold dear?”

He grins and laughs at the same time. “No! No, I don’t, I don’t care what happens, I’ll face it, it’s worth it!”

Sophia quirks her mouth again. “The romantic that _you_ are wants the valid version of all of this, I presume?” She waves her fingers back and forth as reference.

Of course that’s what Oswald wants; he’s confided as much in her, how he hoped to someday have all of it, marriage and love and romance with a partner, a best friend, a soul mate. So when he nods, she nods as well, stacks her paperwork in a pile to deal with later, and begins brainstorming aloud.

“Then congratulations are in order, Oswald. May I be one of the first to extend you the best, and the fondest, of well-wishes on your newest blessing. But, before that, there’s the business to tend to. So, what is the best approach to this? Would you like a private, irreconcilable-differences, with a clear truce issued to the underworld between the Falcones and the Cobblepot gang? We have to get your name changed, by the way—or would you prefer that I be a cheating wife, or some other kind of drama? None of it will tarnish the family name, and it’s the least I can do for you, after…what you’ve done for me. We would be even, then.”

Oswald shakes his head and wipes her words out of the air with a gloved hand. “None of that is necessary, unless you _do_ need someone to be the scapegoat, in which case, I would ask it to be _me_ —be as honest as you’d like about what an _unfulfilling husband_ I’ve been. Tell the world who I left you for.” He smiles devilishly, clearly having fun with the concept.

“Our image—”

“ _Screw_ our image! I don’t give a damn anymore.”

Sophia smiles, from her heart to her ears. “I don’t either.”

It’s _refreshing_ to see Oswald like this. It’s the happiest she’s ever seen him, in all the time they’ve known each other. Something about this moment is like crossing the other side of the meadow, free to roam, to frolic in the sun, to _live_ , open, unabashedly, with vigor, with light.

It’s like nothing she’s ever experienced in Gotham before. A painting too lovely to meet brushstrokes, for it would have to leave the mind.

“Life only gives you one true love,” Oswald lectures, pacing a little in place, “and two options.” He ticks them off with his free hand. “Run towards it, or away from it. And I’m choosing what I always have. The courageous one. The _only_ one.”

Again, Sophia wishes she had personal frame of reference for the intensity of Oswald’s emotions. Someday, likely—someday. “There’s a _very_ simple way to go about the proceedings,” she realizes, reaching for her fountain pen. “A rather fitting one, too.”

“Oh?” Oswald asks, twisting his mouth. “Annulment?”

“No, that makes it so we never _were_ married. That doesn’t even help us, politically. It would be easier to just be freed _from_ the marriage.” Sophia hums, then giggles, lips closed. “I know exactly how. We never consummated our marriage. It easily could be—”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “I might not be a Catholic, but I’ve bothered to read a book or two about canon law in my time, and since we’ve lived together almost the _entirety_ of our marriage, proving _that_ fact to outsiders would be nigh-impossible, making the mission to seek _ratum sed non consummatum_ pointless.”

Sophia shrugs, lifts her upper lip slightly. Oswald never gives her plans the credence they deserved; even in this, it continues….

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he’s getting snide, right on that edge of boastfully pride he always hits before he’s proven wrong. “What will you do, _pop_ over to the Vatican and ask the Pope?”

“It’s not a bad idea,” Sophia muses, looking at nothing in particular while she formulates plans. Should she wear a white suit, or a white dress? No, cream white. With a hat… “Could you ask Mr. Penn to book me plane tickets?”

“ _What_? You know the Pope?” Oswald asks, shaking his head slightly.

Sophia sighs, and braces a hand on the desk. Underestimated again. It’s definitely time for a life change—it’s overdue. Something far grander awaits her after this, of that she’s certain.

At least she finally got a glimpse of something _happy_ before all was said and done.

“Of course I know him, Oswald. How many times do I need to say it? I’m a _Falcone_.”

 

⚮

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading; I welcome your remarks in the comments. ❤︎


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